Communion

Over a year ago I left the church I had attended and been heavily involved in for 18 years.  For a very long time before my departure I had opted not to participate in communion services partly because I was unable to be at peace with the leadership of the congregation. No one forbade me.  I made that choice myself.  I've looked around for a new house of worship and during my recent health crisis I settled in at one for the duration of that experience.  I'm not sure I'll stay there long term but it suited my need for some stability during the insanity that was dealing with cancer while working at a new job.  I'm still looking but I also still drop in there from time to time.  This Sunday was one of those times and  Mr. Lime came with me this week.

It was World Communion Sunday and it was made clear membership was not a prerequisite so we participated.  There were spiritual aspects to this service which affirmed my decision to leave my former church, not that I was in need of that but it's still a good feeling to have the instinct reinforced.  It should be noted that Mr. Lime and Isaac continue to attend the church I have left.  This causes certain observers of our family no end to the consternation.  Ok, really, it just blows their circuitry completely, mainly because they are extremely conservative, and I have clearly gone off the deep end, and why isn't Mr. Lime reining me in better?  Yes, really.  Actually, it's been a very good thing for our family in general and our partnership specifically since I have gone my own way.  That piece of information simply does not compute at all when the already confounded folks hear it....but I digress....not only in matters of faith, but in keeping to the main point of this piece.

Where were we?  Ah yes, in the pew on this lovely Sunday morning, listening to a message before communion wherein the pastor made reference to the movie A League of Their Own.  He continued his remarks with the comment, "Perhaps you recall the line..."  I looked at Mr. Lime and whispered, "Avoid the clap. Jimmy Dugan."  The pastor finished his sentence with, "...'There's no crying in baseball!'"  Mr. Lime responded to my wisecrack with, "Rogers Hornsby was my manager and he called me a talking pile of pighsit.  And did I cry?"  Then we both tried to stop laughing at each other so the pew would stop shaking and the little old ladies on the other end wouldn't be annoyed by us.

Sitting next to Mr. Lime in church laughing together, albeit somewhat irreverently, rather than gritting my teeth through a message that grinds against my core convictions about the nature of Christian charity and its expression was a moment of its own communion, one I had long since forgotten could exist.